A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

Stephen Crane

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Fight on fiercely, Harvard, fight, fight, fight . . .


At the top of the stairs going down to the Athletic Field on the nights we had a home game, one of the local farmers would sell cartons of freshly pressed apple cider. Rumor had it that occasionally some of the cartons would be left-overs from the last home game, and had turned hard in the interim. That none of the cider ever was hard did nothing to diminish the feeling that perhaps this carton was the one. Hard or not, the taste of fresh apple cider on a crisp autumn evening was unforgettable.

At that time football was, for me, a few classmates in uniforms and helmets throwing themselves against other uniforms and helmets under some garish lights on an Friday evening. More important to me was the taste of that cider, the warmth of my band uniform, and the way my date's hand felt in a wool mitten. Otherwise it was just a game whose objective made very little sense to me. I had spent a lot of time in hospitals, and purposefully doing things that could very easily put you, or the other guy, in the hospital was, in my opinion, not the hallmarks of a reasonable, or even fun, sport.

In the forty-some years between those fall evenings and now my attitude toward football has changed very little. I still consider it a pointless exercise, and surprisingly boring. NASCAR, that other hallmark of America's ability to make a mountain out of a very small molehill, at least has fairly continuous actions—granted it's action I can pretty much see if I look out my window toward Indian School Road, but at least it's something—football doesn't even have that. Still and all, I have come to the conclusion that it is perhaps the ultimate expression of what many believe it means to be an American.

First, what is supposed to be sixty minutes of exciting athletics is, in reality, actually several hours of inactivity. In the average professional football game, which might take three and a half hours to complete, there is less than fifteen minutes of actual play. We are not going sit and watch demonstrations of stamina involving men continually running, that is for wimpy Europeans, we want the kind of explosive, steroid powered violence that can only be maintained for three or four seconds.

Then we want two or three minutes of walking back and forth, substituting players, huddling, talking to the coach and other amazingly exciting stuff. Of course this gives you a chance to get another $8 hotdog and $6 beer, or go take a piss because you've already spent $24 dollars on beer, and still not miss the next two and a half seconds of action.

Secondly, we must have a goal of inflated value. We will not sit still for a measly point, we must have six. That is called a 'touchdown.' You score a touchdown by actually carrying the ball into the goal area. Then, being Americans who by divine right deserve everything, we insist upon being given another point for merely kicking the ball through the goal posts. If football was scored like any other sport you would get one point for taking the ball into the goal area. One point. Period. But we cannot have that. That would mean that instead of an excitingly high scoring game of 28 to 21 you would merely have a boring, low scoring game of 4 to 3.

Four to three is for elitist snobs who watch soccer, not Americans. We must have more. And we must be rewarded for coming sort of close, but not actually achieving a goal. So we must have field goals and extra points and safeties, because we wanted to make a touchdown, but weren't quite able to and it's not our fault so we should get some points anyway; and if we do make a touchdown then we should get even more points because we're special.

Third (thirdly?), we insist there be needless violence. How can it be a game worthy of America unless there is the constant expectation that someone might get their neck snapped on the next play. Those men have spent years, and taken countless drugs, developing their bodies into the animal incarnation of a F-350. They are built to intimidate. To harm. The least we can ask them to do is to permanently destroy the knees of the opposing players. Or perhaps their hips. Or spine. Of course this will also lead to the permanent destruction of their own body, but hey, that's what football and America are all about.

So there you have it. American Football in all its glory. A game of 12 or 13 minutes of action safely spread over three to four hours to allow us ample time to get even more disgustingly fat and drunk, while watching a group of men struggling mightily against another group of men struggling just as mightily to score meaningless goals that are vastly overvalued in the most senselessly brutal and aggressive manner possible and doing serious long term damage to each other even if they don't get to kill each other. And on top of that you get to sit in seats that would be comfortable if you were 3'6" tall and weighed 42 pounds; but then you wouldn't be able to consume the quantities if beer and pork products required to support the team like a true fan.

It must be heaven.

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